


Waxing Gibbous

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [40]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Masochism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: Neither of you are good at having the hard conversations.





	Waxing Gibbous

**Author's Note:**

> this one was written to be a follow-up to "strays" but it can stand alone alright.

Vincent has that pensive, far-away look in his eyes again.

You’ve seen it a lot more often lately. Sometimes there’s a quiet night and the lack of a commotion gives him a minute to think. He leans over the counter and sips at his beer as his dog tags clink together. He stares out the windows and squints past the neon lights blinking on the other side of the glass, looking up at a bright half moon curtained by soft clouds.

“I’m thinking about leaving,” he’d tell you if you asked.

You’d pull out a bunch of half-baked excuses about how he just got into town not that long ago and how things are only quiet now because of the season and it’ll be livelier soon.

(You wouldn’t tell him you’d miss him. You wouldn’t tell him he’s fucking ruined you, that you go home from the bar and have dreams where he just hurts you, pulls your hair and bites your neck and talks down to you like you’re his property, and you’re painfully disappointed to wake up.)

He’d just tell you it’s something he has to do. “I feel like I lost myself somewhere out there.”

Where, exactly, he wouldn’t say, just “out there,” gesturing vaguely with his hands towards the window like that means anything to you. It wouldn’t be the tone of a man looking to do a little introspection and soul-searching, either. He’d say it like the self is a tangible thing that fits in the palm of the hand, like he left it tied to a fence somewhere and it was gone when he came back and he’s just gotta find it again. You don’t get it. 

So instead, you say, “Come on,” and tug him out of the bar and into the alley out back. He cracks a smile at your attempts to push him against a wall like you’re the one who’s in charge but he humors you anyway, leans his back on the brick wall of the bar and watches you sink to your knees in front of him.

He lights a cigarette while you fumble with his belt. Smoke coils above his head in lazy circles and he gives a long-suffering sigh like just existing there is making him tired. “It’s not your fault,” he tells you. “You’re not why I’m leaving.”

“Shut up,” you tell him. “You’re not leaving.”

He laughs. “When’d you get so bossy?”

You tug his pants down just enough that his cock springs loose and slide your hand down his shaft. “You weren’t giving any orders,” you say, glancing up at him coyly. “Thought I’d pick up the slack.”

“Oh, you want orders, huh?” His free hand rests on top of your head, shoving your face into his crotch. “Here’s one for you; blow me.”

“I was working on it,” you grumble, and he takes the opportunity to shove his cock into your mouth between the words, forcing you halfway down his shaft as you cough and try to adjust, hands pressing into his hips to steady yourself. Vincent takes long, deep breaths, yanking you back by the hair so you focus on his tip. You look up and meet his eyes when you tongue at his slit and he bucks his hips without meaning to, pushing further down your throat.

(Not your fault, huh? As much as you appreciate the sentiment, it’s a meaningless thing to say. Is “not your fault” supposed to console you on nights when you go to the bar and his spot is empty? Is it supposed to make you feel better when you wake from another wet dream and realize you’ll never feel that in your waking life ever again?)

You swirl your tongue over the head of his cock and enjoy the feeling of his fingers twisting in your hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, “you used to suck at giving head. Remember that? Couldn’t hardly take half of me without choking.”

You remember. It wasn’t that long ago. You suck harder and he starts thrusting shallowly into your mouth.

Vincent taps the end of his cigarette and dimly glowing embers fall onto your shoulder, stinging just enough to make you moan around him. “You learned, though,” he says. “Real quick, too. Figured out how to take me all the way. Started getting off on it, too, didn’t you?” You make a sound of affirmation and he groans at the vibrations it sends through him. “Yeah, I know you did.”

He doesn’t even finish the cigarette. He puts it out in your shoulder and you whimper, a shiver running down your spine. With both hands free, he grasps the sides of your head to hold you still and fucks your mouth. You think of nothing but him—his scent, his taste, his labored breathing and the harshness of his fingers digging into your scalp, his half-lidded, lust-clouded eyes that are too focused on the pleasure to dare wander towards the sky or some distant horizon.

(Whatever he lost, he knows it isn’t here, and that stings.

But you’ll serve as a substitute for as long as he’ll let you.)

He doesn’t speak; he pants and he grunts and he gives a strangled cry when he comes down your throat, and you struggle not to spill anything but some of it trickles down your chin when he tears away from you and lets you collapse on the pavement.

When you timidly look up, he’s kneeling next to you to wipe some of it off of your face. “Sorry,” he says with a tired smile. “You probably want me to hit you or some shit, right? I just don’t have it in me right now.”

“That’s okay,” you tell him.

He looks up at the sky again. You swallow the lump building in your throat. “I don’t wanna be here too much longer,” he says. “It won’t be good for anybody.”

You shrug, trying not to look dejected as you get to your feet. “You could come back, you know. Just swing by someday to say hi.”

(“Where are you going?” you want to ask, and more importantly, “Why?”

You know he’d just laugh it off and tell you not to worry.)

He chuckles, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “Nah. When I’m gone, I’m gone. You wouldn’t want me to come back.”

You don’t say anything.

“I meant it,” he says quietly. “It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t want to hear that.” You take a deep breath. “Just don’t bring it up, alright? You can go whenever, but I don’t want you to warn me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to be able to let you leave.”

Vincent raises a brow. “What’re you going to do, try to beat me into submission?” he laughs. “Remind me when’s the last time you actually won a fight with me. You’re just gonna get the shit kicked out of you one last time before I leave.”

You can’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the sidewalk and fight the tears that want to come out. “That would just be cruel,” you say hoarsely.

Vincent doesn’t say anything for a minute. He squeezes your shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess it would be.”

(It’s not your fault.

He’s not leaving because of you.

He’s not staying for you, either.

You know you’ll just have to live with that.)

When you look over at him, you see the moon reflected in his eyes. 

You hope that when he finds whatever self he’s missing, it’s not too broken.


End file.
